


Discorporate

by Miso



Series: A War He Can't Forget [6]
Category: SCTV (Canada TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV Second Person, PTSD, floyds shitty childhood, im not sure how to tag this but theres some age regression as he's coming back from dissociating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 09:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10553644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: It means to leave your body.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so another bunny wouldn't leave me alone. drunk sad floyd was calling to me. :P yes, this is in the same continuity as snuff the rooster et al., even though this one doesn't have as much to do with floyd's vietnam-related trauma and a lot more to do with trauma related to his abusive childhood. he is not okay.

The burn of the whiskey down your throat reminded you why you saved this stuff for the really bad nights. Trying to liken it to a shot of anesthetic at the dentist helps a little; a sting, a burn, then the pain's gone.

It's the middle of the night. Your nightmares have been giving you some more material lately. Ever since Earl found that trunk in the closet and went through it... you thought you were okay, but maybe not. You've found yourself thinking about Jack a lot lately. Fucking Jack, literally and metaphorically, both person and whiskey. You take another drink from the bottle at your side and wince as it burns on its way down. You wonder what happened to him- the first man you'd ever had the courage to actually make a move on.

Somewhere above you, in the tree, an owl hoots and flies off. You're not bothered. You've downed almost three-quarters of the bottle at this point, and it'd be hard to startle you much at all. Everything's kind of foggy and your limbs feel like jello. You barely register the front door opening. "Floyd?" a soft voice asks, a million miles away. Your brain clicks a second later. Earl's found you.

"Mmh?" you grunt, not looking up from the patch of grass you've been intently staring at. Earl pads over to you and sits beside you on the porch swing. He brushes a lock of your hair behind your ear and wipes a stray drop of whiskey from the corner of your mouth.

"You're drunk."

"Am not." You can't really register it, but you're slurring quite a bit. He rolls his eyes and stands, heaving you up with him and getting your arm over his shoulders. "M'not drunk!" You pull away from him and stumble backwards. "I can... m'fine, jus'..." You attempt to take a step forward, lose your balance, and stumble backwards again. This time you tip over the railing and land ass-first in the bushes. Suddenly you're grateful you talked Earl out of rose bushes.

"You're fine, huh?" Earl asks, leaning over to look at you. He comes down the steps and helps you out of the bush. "Come on... it's late. The neighbors are probably getting suspicious."

"What? Like they dunno they're livin' next to a sad ol' drunk?" You turn away from him and yell, "Hey! I'm all kinds of fucked up!"

He winces and cups a hand over your mouth. "Floyd! Please!" He gives your arm a sharp tug to get you to shut up. "Don't, it's like 2 in the morning!"

You pull his hand down from your mouth. "Vietnam ruined my fuckin' life, man!" You're half-sure Earl's ready to strangle you. Part of you hopes he does. "I wanna take a fuckin' gun to my brains! You're livin' next to a goddamn WRECK!" You don't completely notice your voice break, but you do notice some lights turn on across the street. Earl manages to get his hand over your mouth again and drag you inside, depositing you on the couch after shutting and locking the door.

"What the fuck was that?!" he asks, halfway between irate and terrified. You shrug and reach for the bottle, then pause. "It's outside, and I'm not fucking getting it!" Earl snarls before you can open your mouth to speak. "I get that you're drunk, but goddammit, you can't-"

"Don't tell me whaddafuck I can n' can't do in my fuckin' house. F'I wanna tell every-fuckin'-body I wanna kill myself then I can do that. S'my house." You feel your stomach turn. "F'I wanna..."

"You okay?" Earl's tone is a lot softer, which you're grateful for. You manage to shake your head and practically feel yourself pale. He catches on. "Oh, god, how much did you drink?" he asks, barely loud enough for you to hear, as he hands you a nearby waste bin to hurl into. Just in time.

All that's coming up is alcohol and bile, and it burns. God, it burns. Between heaves you feel yourself crying and trembling. Earl rubs your back gently and whispers reassurances but turns away the second you gag again. He's always had a weak stomach. You're surprised just hearing it isn't making him throw up too.

Once it's over- or at least you hope it's over- you lower the trash can to sit between your feet as you try to get your bearings. You don't feel drunk anymore. Just upset. You sob quietly. The vile taste lingers in your mouth, and you feel either harder sobs or more puke brewing in your gut. You're almost grateful it's the former, but not grateful enough that you don't bite you lip hard enough to bleed in an attempt to hold them back.

Earl stands, wordlessly, and takes the bin with him, making a strangled noise of disgust as he does. _No, no, no, don't go, don't go, please-!_ You lose the battle with your restraint and scream aloud, tears coursing down your cheeks. The taste of leftover stomach acid and whiskey mingles with the blood from your lip and salt from your tears. It's almost enough to make you sick again.

Earl's not coming back. Oh, god, why isn't he coming back? Did he finally get fed up with you? Was that the last straw? Is he finally done with you? You scream his name, panic setting in. You don't hear an answer, and you don't see him come back. The ticking of the clock is agonizingly loud. You faintly register yelling at the clock to shut up, but after that... nothing.

_"Stop crying!" your father yells at you, making you wince and back away, fresh tears welling in your eyes. You're nine again. Nine and you just fell off your bike and earned a pretty nasty scrape on your knee. You sob quietly and look down. Your mother is at the store. She's not here. Dad's all you got. Your eldest sister, Daisy, kneels at your side and hugs you._

_"Quit babying him, you stupid bitch!" Dad shoves your sister to the side. "He's crying like a little asshole because he scraped his knee! He needs to grow the fuck up!"_

_"He's nine and he's hurt, Dad, just put a bandage on him and-"_

_"SHUT UP!" Dad smacks Daisy across the face and turns to you. "You're never gonna amount to anything if you fucking cry like a little shit every time something doesn't go your way!" He grips your shoulders and shakes you. "You're too fucking old for this shit! You keep cryin' I'm gonna knock your fucking teeth out!"_

_You sob. You're scared, and you can't help yourself. You see rage flash over your father's face. Daisy begs him to stop and reaches for him as his fist makes contact with your mouth. You spit out two of your teeth when you come to._

Your heart is pounding like it's ready to come out of your ribcage when you realize where you are again. You glance from your arms, clawed and bleeding, to your hand with bruised and cut knuckles, blood dripping down your fingers. You look up. A smashed mirror greets you. What did you do? You punched a mirror? Clawed the shit out of your arms? Your fingernails are bloodstained, and not just from the glass.

You realize you're alone. You look around and see nothing and no one, but gather you're in your bedroom. "Earl?" you whimper, fear washing over you again. He's still not looking for you? He had to have noticed you're not on the couch anymore, right? Unless... unless he's gone. Unless you were right.

You feel tears in your eyes again. No. No, no, he can't be gone. You can't be alone. You don't want to be alone. You collapse to your knees, shaking. "No. No, no, no, please, god, no," you whisper, sobbing helplessly and eventually curling on your side in the fetal position. You cry out again, begging him to please help you, you're scared and alone and you don't want to be, please, god, just help.

You feel yourself fading again as the door opens. The next thing you feel is someone rubbing your shoulder. "Floyd?" a distant voice says, and you look up. Foggily, you can make out the vague shape of your boyfriend. He came back! He's here, he didn't leave! You sob and reach out for him, like a little kid. He brings you close to him and strokes your hair. "What happened?" he asks softly, as you bury your tear-soaked face into his neck. He rubs your back and rocks you gently as you sob into his neck. He looks up at the broken mirror and then backs out of the hug and inspects your knuckles. "Did you break the mirror?"

"I didn't mean to," you whisper, feeling and sounding a lot like a little kid. Earl sighs a little, nods, and kisses your forehead. That's nice. He loves you. He won't leave. Not again. You take a deep, shuddering breath. "Don't leave again..."

"Shhh, I never left, baby... I've been trying to get in for 20 minutes..." Earl strokes your hair again, and then whispers, "Why did you lock the door?"

Had you? You look up at him, confused. "... Did I?"

"Yeah, and I couldn't find the key. I think the lock's broken now but... I'm here." Earl kisses you again gently. "I'm gonna get some bandages for those cuts..." he stands, backing away. "I'm not leaving. I promise."

You try to keep yourself relaxed as he heads into the bathroom. He returns quickly, just like he promised, with gauze, cotton balls, and some alcohol to sterilize the wounds. You hiss and whimper as he dabs the blood away from your knuckles with alcohol-soaked cotton. "I know it stings," he whispers, as reassuringly as possible. Earl wraps the gauze around your knuckles gently. "There," he says softly as he finishes the job, securing the gauze. "Good as new."

Earl smiles warmly at you. "... Are you okay?" You pause. Are you? You don't know. You feel like you're returning to yourself, just a little, but part of you is still dissociated, feeling like that scared little kid again. You shrug a little. He nods a little and pulls you close again. "Wanna just go back to bed?"

You nod desperately. Bed sounds good. Maybe you just need to sleep it off. Earl nods and stands, helping you to your feet. You wish he could carry you, but you know you're too big. He gently takes you to bed, pulling the blankets back on your side and settling you into bed. He glances at the mirror quizzically, then mumbles "Worry about it in the morning" as he pulls he blankets over you. "Better?" You nod again.

Earl crosses to the dresser and picks up Purrl Camembert, handing him to you. Purrl is more yours than his these days, but he still smells like Earl. You bury your nose in the top of Purrl's head and breathe deep. Earl smiles and strokes your hair gently, then settles into bed beside you. You curl into him and tremble a little. He grips you tight. "You okay?" he asks again. You nod more certainly this time. You're going to be okay, anyway. You think.

You feel your eyelids growing heavy. Dissociating, flashbacks, and panic attacks really take it out of you, you guess. You hear him hush you again and speak comfortingly. "Shhh. It's alright. You're alright." His lips press against the top of your head and you fully close your eyes and fall asleep in moments.

You're gonna have to call your therapist in the morning. That whole episode couldn't be ignored.


End file.
